


Wrecked

by Alphabetaomega



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angsty Schmoop, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hale Family Angst, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, McCall Family Angst, Multi, STRONG AU, Slow Build, So of course characters die., Stilinski Family Angst, The Walking Dead Crossover, Walkers, Zombies, rollercoaster of feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 08:15:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alphabetaomega/pseuds/Alphabetaomega
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek bites off a little more than he can chew. He doesn't realize just what he's getting into when his claws sink a little too deep.</p><p>Beacon Hills is hit hard by an outbreak of gut-guzzling flesh eaters and it's kill or be killed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrecked

**Author's Note:**

> They will be called Walkers later on.  
> Kudos...comments...yes...no?  
> I am warning you... I plan this fic to be pretty angsty. Hardcore.  
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own The Walking Dead or Teen Wolf. I do own this angst.

Derek was on edge.

He had revved up the engine of his Camaro the minute he received Erica’s distressed text message and began speeding back to Beacon Hills. He dialed her up on the phone as soon as he hit the main road and asked her to tell him everything.

Since he was two states away from dealing with werewolf-related business, it would be some time until he got back. He had focused on the road in front of him, not really believing what Erica was telling him.

Derek had asked her if she was playing a joke on him with Isaac and Boyd, because the idea of the dead becoming undead and roaming the streets to attack people seemed way too farfetched. Even so, the pure terror in the sixteen year old’s voice told him that the joke was on him, and it really was no joke. Snarling from both of his male betas could be heard in the background and, since Derek had trained with them enough to know what they sounded like, he didn’t need to ask Erica what they were up to.

Erica had put her phone on speaker so that Boyd and Isaac could hear him, but he only got halfway through telling them to cut their losses and get somewhere safe before the line went dead. He had spent the rest of the drive trying to call _anyone,_ but no one picked up their phones.

It’s been fourteen days since then.

Rain hasn’t fallen since the start of last month. Usually this wouldn’t be weird since rain isn’t common in most of California, but the start of spring usually means an occasional soft drizzle that rides on the backs of warm breezes. Derek noticed the absence but doesn’t mind the lack of rain, figuring that any rain would only add to the gross mess the world has become.

Sometimes the lights flicker on; they don’t last more than five minutes, give or take, before the loud hum of the generators stops. Sometimes Derek can hear the cry of sirens somewhere in the distance. The wail is usually faint, but to his supernatural ears it’s a scream in the solid silence that’s fallen over the town. He’s become accustomed to only hearing the shuffle that his boots make against the earth. The sound of his own blood as it rushes through his system and pounds inside his ears is sometimes the only proof he needs to know he’s still alive.

It’s been fourteen days since the world started shitting the bed and from what Derek’s seen, half of Beacon Hills has already been taken out by whatever the hell is killing people then reincarnating them into bloodthirsty and less than intelligent _monsters._

Before the televisions went down and before the state of Washington was overrun, there had been word about mobilizing the National Guard, Air force, and U.S Military to help protect everyone. It seemed like they were getting ready to mobilize every able-bodied person to fight the zombie outbreak when the broadcast was cut off. The newscaster, a middle aged woman with dark ringlet curls that reminded Derek of the way Laura wore her hair to their aunt’s wedding, was attacked from behind by a zombie. It wasn’t long before the camera man went down too. To everyone’s horror, the rest of the broadcast was listening to the sounds of their bodies being cannibalized by a hoard of grotesque and very real zombies. Derek hasn’t heard anything else come from Washington ever since.

Sometimes the radio comes on if Derek happens to turn the dial to the right station just as a signal is passing through the town. But it’s always the same automated message saying that help is on the way. Just like the lights, the static from the radio eventually died off. Derek wonders if things would be different if he owned a more up to date radio instead of the old box that his mother kept for unknown reasons. Even if having a better quality radio would help him, there’s nothing he can do about it now.

Every store has been broken into and looted. Glass from smashed display windows and doors litter the streets of Beacon Hills like so many fallen leaves.

When he got back and saw his hideout was overrun and his pack nowhere to be found, he didn’t know what to do. The only options were to run or fight, so he did a little bit of both. While he’s taken breaks from fighting, he hasn’t stopped running. The only reason why he has bothered to hang around Beacon Hills so long is because he can’t leave without knowing the fate of his pack.

Deep in his bones he knows that they’re still alive.

Derek’s claws, elongated and poised to kill, rip across the mouth of another “thing”, stopping its inhuman growling in its throat. He kicks the undead figure in the stomach and bares his fangs as it collapses. Another zombie rushes at him, snarling and limping. Derek’s prepared with his shoulders hunched and his feet planted firmly on the ground. He digs his claws in the zombies throat as it lunges at him and catches the creature mid-strike. Derek takes one look at the gnarled flesh on its face and grimaces. With a flick of his wrist he throws the zombie against the wall and the force rattles the Stilinski family photos that hang there.

There is no way that Stiles is still here in this house unless he’s spent the past weeks holed up in his closet with a baseball bat and a few Saltine crackers. But, the idea of him sitting in one place for more than a few hours, let alone while the world is ending, seems highly unlikely to Derek.

Yet here he stands in Stiles’s kitchen which is outright going against his better instincts to just high tail it out of the town. To make matters worse he’s also knee deep in zombie shenanigans.

The zombie on the floor, unrecognizable behind layers of peeled and rotting flesh, looks up at Derek with its blood orange eyes and lets out a breathy growl. Derek roars back in return, hating the way the humidity in the air feeds into the decaying stench of the undead before him. He bends down swiftly to deliver the final blow and sinks his nails into the creature’s eyes.

The first time he tried to kill one of them; he slashed its throat open and was shocked to see the thing retaliate like Derek hadn’t just ripped out its vocal chords. Eventually he realized that the only way to get rid of these dead souls for good was to attack their brains.

He walks to the bottom of the staircase and listens for Stiles, but he can’t hear anything past the adrenaline singing in his ears. Derek takes the stairs two at a time and barges headlong into the first room he sees. Lucky for him, there isn’t any zombies in the room.

It takes him a moment to realize that this isn’t Stiles’s bedroom, it’s the Sheriff’s. On the far wall, hanging over the bed is a simple charcoal drawing of a woman. The details are in just the right places, accentuating her slim nose and broad smile. Her features bear a striking resemblance to Stiles’.

Derek takes a deep breath and wills himself to calm down enough to transform out of his werewolf state. He closes his eyes and listens for any sign that there might be another beating heart in the house. After several moments his senses prick and he opens his eyes. The sound is coming from back downstairs; a heavy scratching noise on the polished wood floor.

Derek frowns, and in his mind he compares the sound he’s hearing to the that of a chair being dragged across hardwood floors. It’s not a heartbeat but it’s something to go off of. Slowly Derek turns from the Sheriff’s bedroom and closes the door behind him as he leaves.

If Stiles isn’t in his house anymore then Derek has no clue where else he can be. He asks himself, “What would Stiles do?”, and his mind wanders to a few clever scenarios, as well as a few stupid ones. If there is anything Derek knows about Stiles’s personality it’s that he’s just as reckless as he is cunning. He really doesn’t know what Stiles would do or where he would go.

The Alpha’s thoughts are interrupted by the scratching coming from the floor below him. The peculiar sound makes its way across the floor, agonizingly slow and stops at the foot of the staircase.

The hairs on Derek’s neck stand on end. He takes a deep breath, preparing himself for another fight. He steps lightly and with purpose to the top of the stairs. What he sees waiting for him at the bottom of the steps makes him shiver. Despite the humidity in the air he can feel the gooseflesh begin to harass the skin on his arms.

The zombie from before, the same one he thought he’d killed with his claws, is dragging itself onto the first step. It gnashes its teeth and hisses.

Derek is about to engage the creature when something stops him. He senses something different about the zombie. It smells different somehow. The zombie shrieks at him, its mouth gaping so wide that Derek can see down its torn throat. It’s not the noise It makes that causes Derek’s heart to skip a beat. It’s the elongated pair of canines that definitely weren’t there before. It’s the newly turned ice blue eyes which makes his blood run a sour course.

Derek’s fight or flight instincts, demand his attention, and urge him to fight. Although he isn’t quite sure on how to go about fighting an undead werewolf.

The zombie lifts its head as it slowly inches its way up the staircase. Its body creaks and squishes against the wood. Its yellowed canines clack together as it groans and gurgles.

Hadn’t his claws reached deep enough when he originally made the killing blow? The thing crawling up the stairs poses a question Derek never thought about before; where do werewolves fit into the equation of the living dead?

So far he’s assumed that everything he kills stays dead. Then again, he also never stays around long enough to find out. He thinks about the two zombies he killed with a kitchen knife back at Scott’s house. They had stayed dead, so it is baffling to him why this one didn’t.

He doesn’t spend time thinking about it though, and decides the solution is this: Cut deeper.

He’s brought out of his trance by a hand grabbing his ankle. Out of reflex, Derek bares his teeth and kickes the zombie Hybrid right in the face. His boot smashes a couple of teeth and breaks It’s jaw bone. As It wails and careens backwards, Derek marvels at how the zombie didn’t latch onto the bottom of his boot. The loud snap of It’s bones breaking vibrates through the empty house. As It tumbles unnaturally down the staircase, its flesh tears in some places and completely peels off in others.

Derek chooses not to think about the detached skin left in the zombies wake. He does his best to swallow the lump in his throat and reminds himself that he’s a mother fucking werewolf; a couple of walking corpses are sloths and snails compared to him. With that in mind he leaps off the top stair and lands on the floor.

The beta zombie wiggles around and reaches for Derek from the floor. The closer Derek gets, the wilder the Hybrid becomes. He stops just out of reach and crouches down so that he’s eye level with it. It screeches and seethes; its blue eyes fiery.

Derek catches the second zombie coming at him in enough time to turn around and face it head on. He is plowed backwards into the railings of the stairs by sheer strength. The railings break under the force and Derek and the zombie grapple for the upper hand in the splintered debris.

The zombie is much stronger than before, its eyes are now blue. The Hybrid’s fangs protrude from Its grossly sunken cheeks and Its decayed set of lips.

Grabbing a piece of the railing, Derek breaks it from the staircase and uses it like a dagger. He uses one leg to push the zombie back, Its teeth inches from Derek’s face. And with his fingers curled around the broken wood, drives it deep into the zombies dead. He keeps pushing until he sees the zombies eyes roll backwards in Its head.

It goes limp on top of the Alpha and he groans in complete disgust.

Beside him the first Hybrid screeches loudly and clacks its teeth together greedily. It can’t stand Derek being so close but not being able to get at him. Derek rolls the corpse off of him and grabs for another piece of railing. He stabs the splintered end of the steak down on the undead’s head. The wood goes easily through the Hybrid’s mushy skull and makes a grotesque squelching noise when it enters the zombies brain.

Derek checks himself for injuries, wincing at the ache the bruises along his shoulder blades cause him. He decides it’s best if he waits until he’s healed to head out again.

Despite his growing weariness, he makes sure to keep his senses on high alert.

It’s a particularly warm evening. The sun sets in hues of pinks and blues. Even though the wind is blowing, the humidity causes the air to smell like rotting flesh. Derek grimaces at the smell but reminds himself that things could be worse. The air could be filled with the smell of burning flesh, and though the choice isn’t much better, he’d rather rotting flesh over burning flesh any day.

As the sun sets Derek wonders what Laura would do if she was still here. As predictable as he was, she would always think two or three steps ahead of the game. A trait lost to Derek.

Slowly his thoughts wander towards his mother, Talia Hale. He thinks about how the Sheriff keeps a portrait of his late wife over his bed and wonders if his father would have done the same. He doesn’t let his thoughts linger on his family for too long because even though it’s been a while, the memories still bring him pain; a hollowed ache that rattles the very muscles that make him.

There was once a time when he first met Stiles where he let himself daydream about the possibility of their mothers knowing each other while they were still alive. And if they had known each other, were they up in the great beyond sitting side by side, yelling down at their sons like the way Derek’s dad use to yell at the TV when football was on?

A deep rooted shame never fails to tickle the vertebrae of Derek’s spine when he thinks about his family. And like now, as he slowly makes his way upstairs a sadness threatens to swallow him.

The last of the light is beginning to face when Derek finds the Sheriff’s spare hand gun. The gun is a silver Colt Python and Derek handles it with care, turning it over in his hands.

His father died before he got to teach Derek how to shoot a gun. Derek’s mother was a strong believer in the anti-gun laws. She could’ve cared less about hunting and didn’t see the point in owning one for protection. As a mother she was naturally scared by all the stories on the news about boys and girls finding their parents guns and using them to kill themselves, or someone else. She never wanted to be on the receiving end of one of those phone calls, so she banned guns from the house.

Derek has almost no clue how to shoot a gun aside from what he’s seen on the television. He decides to take the pistol anyway and tucks it between the waistband of his jeans and the small of his back.

The sun sinks behind the horizon as Derek barricades himself in Stiles’s room by dragging the dresser in front of the door. This isn’t the quietest process, but he completes it as quickly as possible. Next, he shuts any light out of the room by closing the shades. He’s learned that when night comes, there are way more of _them_ roaming the streets.

He looks over at Stiles’s bed and doesn’t feel right sleeping in it. Instead he takes all of the blankets off of Stiles’ bed and creates a nest for himself on the ground.

Derek feels wrecked and probably looks worse, yet he stays up for a long while after he settles down and thinks of a new game plan. The best thing for him to do would be to try and locate Peter.

The uneasy sound of zombies prowling the streets makes his blood sizzle.

The only thing that tempers and calms his anxiety, the rush of exhaustion, is the oddly familiar scent of Stiles. The blankets smell like laundry detergent mixed with Stiles’s natural musk. It isn’t over powering and if Derek had to describe it he’d use the word, “warm”. It’s heaven in comparison to the things he’s smelled as of late.

That night he falls asleep close to dawn, with Stiles’s blankets having transformed him into a werewolf-burrito. 


End file.
